


Returned Them in Exchange for You

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Banter, Clothed Sex, Come Swallowing, Developing Relationship, Dry Humping, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Making Out, Manhandling, Older Man/Younger Man, Porn With Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut 4 Smut 2020, Snark, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Sir Jan is simply trying to make an amenable match. It's hardly his fault the Honourable Lady Izabella's lordly father is an absolutearse.
Relationships: Landless Knight/The Father of the Heiress He's Trying to Marry, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 17
Kudos: 174
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Returned Them in Exchange for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceci_n_est_pas_un_corbeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceci_n_est_pas_un_corbeau/gifts).



> Gosh, I may have fudged the historical bits a tad, but I hope the smutty parts are all right.
> 
> Title from "What the Water Gave Me" by Florence + the Machine.
> 
> ETA 04/26/2020: [my tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)

The Honourable Lady Izabella is a beauty by all accounts. To this Sir Jan can certainly attest once they are formally introduced. Never mind they exchange only a handful of words before she is shuffled away by her nanny, or housekeeper, or whatever position the old bag might hold.

Thereafter, for the half a dozen or so occasions when Jan spies her across town, she looks the very picture of an heiress, only immeasurably more polite and generous with her time and attentions. He is definitely impressed. Not that his options are anywhere as numerous or varied as hers, but youth is on his side, and a certain charm going far beyond his physical attributes, if he does say so himself.

There are certainly countless things he has reason to be impressed with as well, where the Lady Izabella is concerned. It would, however, be better for his being impressed by his present surroundings in particular if his doublet were not vaguely tight in places his armour usually is not, impeding his ease of movement somewhat, never mind his breathing.

The invitation, he has to admit, was not entirely a surprise. Even if it were, it would be a most welcomed one, in principle.

He's been told on good authority there may be a lot of sitting about occurring at a banquet, even one held in honour of a lord's daughter's birthday, which he is hardly enthused about given his attire for the evening. Perhaps a smattering of dancing as well, which has his back up just as soundly.

He's dreading the latter more than formally meeting Izabella's father, the local lord of these parts, but only marginally so. He has shared a room with the man before, if a public house counts, but there hasn't been any good reason for them to converse, or even stand within a dozen feet of each other. But his intentions must be plain regardless. The entire town must be privy to them by now, despite Jan's efforts to remain quiet on the matter until his been even remotely certain of Lord Gerik's assent.

Broad-shouldered and tall, taller by an inch or two more than Jan (who is of a more than respectable height) estimating by the men surrounding him which Jan knows he himself surpasses in height, clean-shaven, light-coloured eyes and the same blond-white hair as his daughter, he is more than a decently intimidating figure.

Spotting him from across the room, Jan makes a note to straighten his own back when he notices it sloping inwards, which the damned doublet should have been preventing to begin with, but, apparently, not as much as advertised. He hears the bones and muscles and sinews and whatnot in his back creak ominously, leading him to believe he's been hunching into himself for a good chunk of time as he's been staring unabashedly at Lord Gerik from afar.

No one has yet taken notice, however, seemingly too preoccupied with those of a higher standing than him, which, given his landless station, are not difficult to locate in such a crowd. Gerik himself has been pressed from all sides for his attention, which he appears to seldom bestow on anyone for more than a moment's acquiescence of their existence near his person before moving on to the next.

After an endless amount of time, Gerik finally seems rid of most of the lower lordlings attempting to guide the conversation in their favour to earn his. An opening which will not remain empty for long means it might just be as good a time as any to take the ox by the balls, as it were, and make a formal introduction. But before Jan can make his way across the floor, he is intercepted by Lady Izabella herself, sans nanny, decolletage befitting an heiress on her birthday celebration.

His eyes stubbornly retain their focus on her face, thank you very much. Jan is, after all, a knight rather than a green boy faced with his first pretty girl, damn it.

"My good knight," she greets, flushed and bubbly.

"My fair lady," he responds. A tad cheeky, to be sure, though her quick smile indicates she appreciates it.

"I so _do_ cherish your gracing us with your presence." Before he can thank her for the invitation, she adds, "Where are you residing, incidentally?" If it were anyone else, Jan might make a comment that the lady in question is being extremely forward requesting this information, but, despite rumours to the contrary, Jan is not an actual idiot.

In fact, everything about the situation is irresistible to his purpose. Her nursemaid is not only nowhere to be seen but not yet hurrying to their sides. Ideal in all ways. "The inn next to The Rowdy Maiden down Main Street, or whatever passes for the rather large and only street you seem to have in the village." Izabella giggles, obviously enchanted with Jan's feeble attempts at humour.

Jan has just started wondering whether or not he ought to be brazen and ask Izabella for the first dance, risking her denying him or, worse, claiming the first dance to be already taken, whether it were so or not, when a shadow falls over them, and he looks up to find Gerik himself hovering next to them, over them, expression carefully blank.

The conversation has little chance to reach greater heights, and Jan sighs internally. His elbow is then gripped in a strong hold, though not rough by any means, meant to turn him towards Gerik and vaguely away from his daughter when Jan fails to widen the space between them to welcome Gerik into their corner.

"Father!" Izabella says lightly. Jan suspects the lightness is hardly truthful, but he appreciates it nonetheless. Even though it might just be the last thing he gets to appreciate about her given his current situation.

Quick and efficient introductions follow. If one may call them so. Jan says his name and rank and all that good stuff which usually grants him the little recognition he is entitled to. Izabella hurries to introduce her father, which goes about as well as it ever could have gone considering the man has just stumbled upon his only daughter hanging off a landless knight's arm while said knight granted her directions to his present lodgings in town.

"A word after the festivities have ended." It's not a question and it is very evidently directed at Jan, who nods assent to Gerik's back, already dismissed in all ways, Izabella following her father's lead with a forlorn glance over the crest of her shoulder. He hopes for the best with a final look at the pair because, apparently, he genuinely _is_ an idiot after all.

To no one's surprise, much less his, his seat is as far away from the high table as physically possible without his being seated on another floor of the manor altogether. He hardly touches his food. He has no clue how he manages to swallow anything down. He chews by rote, downs a goblet of wine and no more on a nearly empty stomach, and waits for his chance to depart with some measure of dignity remaining.

Sadly, Gerik does not forget their assignation. Because Jan's life cannot in any respect be easy, it seems.

Granted, he did, _technically_ , throw himself into this mess by sniffing around the man's daughter, but that's hardly a crime, unless Gerik has decided to make it so. Jan misses his sword dearly.

After the dances are finally over, he allows himself to get partially manhandled away by a lowly and extremely fidgety boy of no more than thirteen who leads him up two sets of stairs and down a long corridor ending in the grandest room yet, a library and inner sanctum truly fit for a lord. He must confess he is impressed despite himself. He wonders for a moment whether the rumours of Lord Gerik's fortune and power were severely undersold before he remembers it hardly matters now. This cannot end well.

He only shuffles his feet and stares curiously around for a minute before he's joined by Gerik himself, looking equally sober as Jan feels, an oddity given everyone in the great room below them had been fully into their cups when Jan departed upstairs.

Beating around the bush is far from anything Lord Gerik is about, from everything Jan has ever heard about him, and more so from the fact that he's barely locked the door behind him and turned to Jan when he states in a tone which brooks no argument, "You have no prospects."

Well. That certainly would not have even remotely meant anything positive for Jan's future with the Lady Izabella had he still been under the impression there was any future to speak of. As it is, he collects himself to reply in a steadier voice than he actually feels, "I only wish to honour your daughter, my lord." He braces himself for impact. This conversation can only end in utter defeat anyway.

Gerik doesn't disappoint. "As I said, _no_ prospects." Which is unfair, but the world they live in is certainly that and more, therefore Jan tries not to take it _too_ personally.

Sighing, he states simply, "You seem to have made up your mind." Hardly worth arguing the point.

"Izabella deserves the best which is in my possession to bestow upon her."

Tone even, he surmises, "I take it that's hardly something I may ever be described as. In _your_ eyes." Not worth arguing the point, but there is such a thing as a man's pride.

Regarding him with a cold up and down stare, lingering about this chest as if aware of the constricting doublet Jan was forced into wearing to improve upon his regard where there was little chance he ever could, Gerik finally relents enough to say, "You have your own gifts, I'm sure." His tone is disinterested. As if Jan is hardly worth his regard. His eyes are at half-mast, evidently bored with the proceedings. Probably looking forward to returning to the party his coin is paying for.

The argumentative and recklessly bold part of his mind takes over his generally careless mouth. All other parts of his being can only stand and watch when he says, "Yes, well, land and title do not figure there. As you probably are already aware by now." Presumably stupidly unshrinking under the glare he receives, he waits for whatever will come next.

Gerik does not deny it. They are not here to play games. Nor does he call for Jan to be bodily removed from his presence, so there's that. "I appreciate your situation and the affection you no doubt hold for my daughter, despite having only interacted the once. To my knowledge," he adds pointedly. "But that counts for little where marriage is concerned."

"I'm sure," he snaps.

"Being insolent will not earn you much favour with me." Jan should be panicking right about now, but this constitutes the first real instance Gerik has shown anything even remotely resembling emotion, even if it manifests as the type of impatience prone to devolve into physical brutality if tested.

"It's not earning me much either way." He swallows, suddenly sure the conversation must be at an end, his efforts most likely wasted. Not that he knows why he was trying anyway. Vaguely, he wonders whether it's too late in the evening to have the coin he paid for another night at the inn back, then get his meagre possessions together and leave this fucking town.

Gerik must be of the same thought, his tone level. "My good sir knight, I believe we've exchanged as many words as are enough to have made my position quite clear on the matter of your wedding my one and only daughter."

"Perfectly clear, I'm sure." Licking his lips, his gaze flickers around the room before once more landing on Lord Gerik, whose eyes don't seem to have left him for even an instant. His collar feels too tight, his face too hot with sudden embarrassment.

Clearing his voice, Gerik states, "I want to offer you a drink before you depart." As if Jan's departure is a done deal, which he guesses it must be at this point. He takes the liberty of unbuttoning his collar. Not that it matters anymore. Gerik watches him impassively, no reaction forthcoming. Might as well be looking through him, Jan reckons

Before Gerik moves farther into the room, presumably to get them a drink before Jan gets to leave with all of his limbs attached, he does have one more thing to say. A curiosity which has been bothering him for the better part of their conversation. "Does Izabella share your perspective?"

"I have made my position clear to her as well. I care for my daughter and do not wish to have her affections grow where the soil is without merit." The words are final, Gerik leaving his spot by the doors at last.

Hands clenching by his sides, Jan breathes out and walks over to where Gerik is leading the way to a table at the far end of the carpeted room to pour them two goblets of what he is sure is rich wine far beyond anything Jan has tasted before, richer even than what was served at his only daughter's birthday celebrations. His pride is hardly going to stand between him and the last thing he will ever have of Lord Gerik's.

Backlit by the candle at the edge of the table, he turns around to face him with a glass in each hand. His eyes seem a fathomless black when he steps closer to offer one to Jan. Their fingers brush on the glass, curious in itself given how Jan could have avoided the touch altogether. An odd tingle starts when their bare skin touches. It's been an aimless night. The touch is almost like a ghost. Jan glances upwards, glass lingering hardly a centimetre from his lips. Gerik is watching him still, even as he drinks from his own glass. Jan follows suit, drinking his drink, taste blooming on his tongue exquisitely, then licks his lips on instinct. He was right; it's the best thing he has ever tasted.

His gaze lingers on random objects all around him. A little haphazardly perhaps. The fire in the hearth burns merrily, and, coupled with the few lit candles sparsely adorning the room, it bestows a golden glow upon every surface.

Too quickly does he finish his wine, but it is as much a light wine as it is rich. A bottle might go to his head, but a goblet is hardly noticeable. It improves his mood only marginally.

He faces Gerik once more to hand the empty glass over, which the man takes with a frown on his lips. Wordlessly, he puts both away, having finished his own just as quickly. There is no reason for them to remain standing here, together, any longer, but Jan finds himself loath to leave just yet, something remaining unresolved; something which itches underneath his skin, nameless.

It's Gerik, surprisingly enough, who resumes their earlier conversation. "I find it unlikely you would become attached after only two meetings," he states, gaze wandering, tone careless almost. It returns to Jan with narrow-eyed focus. "Are you genuinely hurt?"

Seemingly genuine curiosity lies in his face, an undercurrent of it beneath his words. He puts a firm hand on Jan's shoulder to emphasise it, the touch warm through the fabric of his doublet. An unlikely gesture Jan permits more out of shock than anything else. Gerik's hands are broad, fingers thick. The thumb touches at the edge of his unbuttoned collar, a quarter of an inch past its edge.

For his own part, he swells his chest and muses, "Two meetings could have turned to much more, given time and space," the last a pointed remark he marvels at himself for making. His neck tingles where skin touches skin. He has yet to protest the touch. There is too much there, too much happening, and too much in a look.

Whispered, Gerik's reply comes softly yet confidently. "Or nothing at all," and Jan knows it's said with sincerity. Utter belief.

A strange silence follows. It's uncanny. Not at all easy to decipher. The hand on his shoulder is a lead weight. But it falls away, leaving him ostensibly as soon as the thought occurs, as if guided by Jan's mind in some way. Which is patently ridiculous. He scoffs at it, even though it makes no sense to do so now, between them. The fire catches his sight, this time retaining his attention for far longer than it should given his current situation, but the warmth of the room and the play of the flames has him momentarily transfixed.

The touch is, then, a shock.

How could it not be?

Jan's eyes slide away from the fire, snapping back to Gerik's face, startled, exceedingly so when Gerik cups his face in one of his big hands. His palm is warm and oddly careful, if not tentative, cradling Jan from jawline to the back of his skull, fingers tickling at the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

Even as seconds upon seconds tick by, he's still convinced this is all one big misunderstanding. That he's simply reading too much into the gesture, although he cannot for the life of him come up with any genuine reason why he should be touched by Lord Gerik, much less _like this_. However, he refuses to turn into a dithering mess around the man because of it.

Easier said than done. His mouth is too dry to speak, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, but he finally manages to move his words outwards after swallowing convulsively a couple of times. "What is this?" he whispers, startled at how low-pitched his voice is. How breathless he sounds.

A growl wells from Gerik's chest, cut short in an instant. Unbidden, the notion that Gerik is much older occurs to him, shockingly appealing, experience far beyond what Jan possesses. His breath catches in that moment, entirely without his consent.

He licks his lips once more as Gerik answers, "What do you want it to be?" In the low light of the room, his pupils once more appear as dark holes. For the first time, Jan notices how dilated they are, the blue completely swallowed up. Notices the gentle flush barely touching the top of his cheekbones, yet present nonetheless.

His own face begins to flush, perhaps in sympathy, though undoubtedly unattractively splotchy, or so it feels like, warmth spreading unevenly.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up at the back of his throat, but he cages it in before it can escape. Because Gerik is _serious_. He's standing too close, and he's serious.

"Oh," Jan says. Then, " _Oh,_ " only mildly more panicked than the previous moment. Shortly, and only slightly strangely, panic gives way to interest, and interest only.

Huh.

There truly is about an inch of difference in their heights. Jan confirms that to be the case when their lips easily smear against each other from one breath to the next. A soft mouth moves on his with barely restrained confidence. He lets his bottom teeth drag lightly, almost experimentally, upwards. In return, the kiss turns rougher, restraint forgotten, strong hands gripping at the small of his back, bringing them close together for Gerik's tongue to comfortably lick inside his mouth, hot and overwhelming, exploring when Jan can barely keep up. His own hands grasp at broad shoulders, head tilting to allow better access, because this is what the evening has turned into. It's hardly disagreeable.

It's a short way to the grand desk with its plush chair positioned behind it to overlook the entire room. Gerik guides them to it without releasing his mouth, though he must do so in order to seat himself, which he does completely unhurriedly. Pulls Jan into his lap quickly enough afterwards, and Jan scrambles to get his knees under him and straddle his upper thighs, muscles stretching to accommodate the girth of him.

Palms fall to his arse to knead him there, pull his cheeks apart and back again, rock him closer with little care or restraint, all of that left behind, while Jan nips and licks at his mouth once more. His doublet has never felt as constricting as it does now, his breath at a gallop, lungs working to kiss and allow his mouth to be devoured.

He misses the hand cupping his face until it touches gently at his cheek to still him in his desperation. "Stay," Gerik orders, voice mild, even a little soothing. Certainly the kindest by far he's spoken since their first meeting. As if Jan were about to bolt. Although. Maybe. But, then again, not unless Gerik runs him off. Which doesn't seem likely given his perch on the man's lap.

Lips prod at his once more, and he opens eagerly. This time around their tongues are not rough with each other. Gerik licks in interestedly, as if giving him the option yet willing to accept a denial. As if Jan has _not_ been along for the ride from the very start. He gives back in equal measure, allowing Gerik to suck on his tongue while the fingers on the hand not holding his face prod at his crease towards his hole through the thick fabric of his formal trousers. It twitches at the very thought, and Jan trembles all through his body, knees digging into the seat cushion, the muscles at his groin stretching an inch or two farther.

It's satisfyingly uncomfortable to allow himself to be used in this way, to mould himself to a body in this way. He almost grins into the kiss for joy of it.

Soon enough, the palm at his face departs for better places, such as snaking its way between them so nimble fingers can unlace him to free his cock, which dribbles weakly against his stomach once exposed to the warm air in the room. His own hurry far less gracefully to do the same to Gerik's much finer trousers, only to find him in an equal state, prick hot and fat and more than a handful, more than he could comfortably take unless stretched carefully and attentively with oil. Has his hole opening and closing on a sudden spasm against that persistent finger, merely considering the girth of it, fingers failing to meet around it, mentally already permitting all and more, were Gerik to ask it of him.

But what Gerik wants of him now, it seems, is to drag calloused fingers up and down his cock. To grip at him the same way Jan is gripping at him.

A loud crash from downstairs, followed by a giggly scream, nearly manages to take his breath away uncomfortably. He jumps and leans back to curl his fingers around the edge of the desk, nails digging into polished wood, his breath ragged and lips tingling, staring at Gerik with wide eyes.

However much they may be enjoying themselves, time is not on their side, as Gerik must be well aware, thus he lets go of Jan's leaking cock in order to firmly grip at his hips to half hold him into place where he wants him, which, in this case, obviously ends up being astride one thick thigh. Arms reach out once more for purchase at his shoulders. Jan's knee bumps into his swollen prick, which has him hissing harshly before he guides Jan's hips into a rocking rhythm, like waves against a rocky shore, his cock smearing pre-come across expensive cloth, balls aching at the sweetly rough coarseness of fabric against his slit on every push forward.

Another shift, and he's leaking onto Gerik's prick on the tail-end of each thrust, and it makes his breath stick. There's a desperate flex to his hips which accompanies it. Gerik's hand is quick and efficient and knowledgeable when it reaches once more for his cock.

He groans. The grip is too dry. But Gerik removes his hand to spit into it before quickly returning it to grip at the both of them together. It's this, the sight of Gerik's spit drooling between his palm and his reddened cock and Jan's own, which wrings him dry and leaves him gasping within a couple of strokes, messing up the skin of his lower stomach and his shirt and doublet. His face burrows into the side of Gerik's neck to pant wetly into it.

"Are you—?" But he doesn't know what he's asking. Loops a hand around the back of Gerik's neck, pulling him into a hard kiss which turns soft once his breathing eases, once Gerik eases him down. He leans into it, their cocks rubbing wetly over each other between them, even though Jan is half-hard at best and softening quickly. But the feel of another hard prick against his, when he's like this, is a delicious treat all on its own despite the sting of over-stimulation.

His breathing is hardly back to normal before he spits messily into his palm to manoeuvre his hand between them to grip at them, fingers entwining with Gerik's, working them as best he can from this angle while Gerik's mouth latches onto his once more. Aimless arousal still lingers at the edges of his mind, in the spark at the base of his spine, from the way Gerik's hand guides his hips on his big thigh, then upwards for his fingers to pet at the waistband of his trousers.

"You're good," he gruffly whispers against Jan's mouth. It's nothing at all. Hardly a genuine compliment. Hardly anything to remember later on, alone in his inn's straw bed fondling at his balls and teasing his hole. But his breath hitches now, and Gerik finally comes messily into his palm with a grunt.

Jan wants to lick it clean, and he does. His cock valiantly rises to half-mast as he does. Perhaps for later. It's the bitter sweetness on his tongue which has him thinking of _more more more_.

The forthcoming invitation to remain the night, delivered among shallow breaths, comes as a surprise, even though a corner of his mind, hedonistically purring like a cat, believes it shouldn't be.

Jan nods assent as Gerik tips his head forward for another kiss.


End file.
